Page 81 of Burning Embers
A plethora of groans ripples through the classroom. Apparently, I’m not the only one put off by Ansel’s icy demeanor. The man in question rises from his seat in the front of the classroom—of fucking course he would sit up front—and he quickly surveys everyone present. I can’t help but notice the hurt in his eyes before he masks it, and I instantly feel like a sack of shit.
God, what must it be like to have absolutely zero friends? No matter what school I went to, I at least had a few casual acquaintances I could sit with and talk to.
Ansel has no one, at least from what I can see.
I half wonder if the other students are just too intimidated by him. He’s insanely good-looking, and you’d have to be blind not to notice. Even Ashlinn once confessed that he’s a “sexy nerd with the attitude of a shit.”
Ansel clears his throat and smooths a hand down his carefully ironed shirt. There’s not a single wrinkle that I can see.I’m pretty sure it’s been custom tailored as well. It clings to his muscular frame like a dream.
“A lot of the roles have already been assigned for the semester,” Ansel says.
That’s true. When I arrived a few days ago, Mrs. Kingsley told me that she already handed out the majority of jobs. I was supposed to help where I could, bouncing from person to person. It’s how I met KD. She’s in charge of going through all of the photos the photographers took and choosing the best ones.
“However,” Ansel continues, “I’ll need some volunteers to help photograph the football game with me on Friday. Usually events as big as that require at least two photographers, but I seem to be the only one who signed up.”
His pink lips press together, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s in irritation or hurt.
Normally when a signup is posted, the slots are filled within seconds, especially for the football games. Not only do you get into the game for free, but you’re also able to be right on the field with the players. The guys like it because they get to talk to their friends, and the girls like it because they can flirt with the football players for school credit. It’s also a very easy A.
But no one wants to work with Ansel, who apparently makes life a “living hell” for any photographers involved. At least according to KD and Ashlinn.
“He made a girl cry,” Ashlinn once told me.
“It should be easy to avoid him,” KD said. “But he’severywhere, and he’s constantly yelling at you and snapping at you and making you feel like shit.”
So you can imagine the class’s collective disappointment when Ansel put his name down for the most important football game of the year.
“Any volunteers?” Ansel’s fingers begin to tap against his khakis as red blossoms on his cheeks.
It takes me a second too long to realize he’s embarrassed.
The room is so silent, you could hear a pin drop. Even Mr. Remington is beginning to look uncomfortable, that easy smile of his gradually sliding off his face.
Motherfucker.
Before I can second-guess my decision, I lift my hand into the air. KD and Ashlinn both gape at me.
Ansel turns in my direction, and I swear I see relief seep into his eyes before he forces his expression to harden. He nods once in acknowledgment before continuing on with his spiel.
Keep up the good work, blah blah blah.
Make sure you meet your deadlines, blah blah blah.
Check the board for any new openings of events that need to be photographed, blah blah blah.
By the time Ansel dismisses us to continue our projects, I’m afraid my brain is going to explode from boredom. Is that even a thing? I make a note to look it up as soon as I’m able to.
“I can’t believe you’re brave enough to risk working with Ansel,” KD whispers under her breath as she pulls up the file labeled CROSS COUNTRY and begins to scroll through the photos.
“He’s terrifying,” Ashlinn agrees as she leans over KD’s shoulder to point at one of the pictures. “This one’s good.”
KD nods and moves the photo to a separate folder before continuing. “Aren’t you scared he’s going to murder you and hide your body?”
“Nah, he doesn’t seem like the murdering type.” Ashlinn waves a flippant hand in the air. “More of the ‘yell at you until you want to curl into a ball and die type.’”
“I’ll make sure to keep my voice down when I’m around you, then,” a smooth voice remarks from directly behind us.
All three of us spin around to face Ansel, whose eyes are dark despite his carefully neutral expression.